Posts Tagged ‘love’

I just want to grace it.I want to swing heads blind.I want to de-clutter the expectation. I want to objectify the past. I want to cast the plunge. I want to sun the hours. I want tocourage the empty and then, scat away.

Don has the authority and Peggy has the emotion, but that’s in the past. She wears the pants and Don is crying alone in his apartment. Peggy lives in the not-knowing, each breath a gasp. Don lives “in the now” and “the know.”

His failures are a ladder, and she climbs it wrung by wrung. Her hands reach up but her feet hesitate to follow.

They are two parts of a stumbling whole. Their pasts, a splintered truth.

One small tear at an ankle, could bring them to their knees.

When Peggy needs Don, he is glad to be needed, but it is the needing that desires, not the work. The needing is a haunt

Peggy asks, “what do I know about motherhood” and Don takes a moment. He simmers in their intellects. He lets her stew.

She looks at him: “you love this,” and he does, but not in that way.

He loves what she is capable of. She is Manhattan. She is growing and growing. Her arms are pulsing with the blood of the next century.

When they dance to Sinatra, it is like every childhood memory they wish they had, except she is not a child and Don is not her father.

There is a tenderness there, in their package of equals.

Their sale is not dependent on their cleverness.

Their sale is not dependent on their skill.

Their sale is dependent on their love.

And when Peggy puts her head on Don’s shoulder, and the moon outside is wide-brimmed, their love is pinned in the stars of the city. Their love is based on their independence. They both only know one way, my way.

“Oh, you would’ve liked a better ending!” she exclaims.“That’s too bad. Next time, show up to the right story.” She opens her heart and says, “Hmm, let’s see what is given to me today to write about.” She is hoping for a new page.

I want to be a self-starter,she thinks, I want to finish with sparks. And then she is little girl, catching fireflies in the summer. Each glow, a story; each glow, an ordinary sun.

She paces on the line; squeezes between two words and then line-jumps. She is glad to see the margin, and leans there for a minute. It bends, bridging into another margin.Even the heart has architecture, she thinks.

This is her great love: this figuring; this terror-slaying; this air raid of wonder.

I want to be involved with a stanza, she thinks.She wants something to call her own. A page turns.“I love you,” it says, “I love you.” “I love you.”

In this little war, the speed of the eye is null and akin to nothing. No one knows this.

Still, it theorizes,

of this.

Together, we do not move or forage or forest. Reader, what do you know of muteness? Of the world so strange and of the haunt of numbers?

I want

to know what you carry

…there…

(if it is a key, give it.)

It feels like a battle. A hidden one. A hidden, little, one. Subtle-like, where my feet do not leave prints. The air does not capture my breath. My hair does not hit the floor, it flies up to a tree where it harvests a nest for someone/thing else. Nothing shoots. Nothing loads. No thing screams, but I know something inside wants.

I don’t know what is beneath the exterior, or the virtual. I am losing. Alignment is losing. Thought is losing. Feeling is latching to some thing some where.

readings

I agree with Jeanette on e-books

From Jeanette Winterson's March 2011 Column
"I am a romantic and prefer the full-strength version that you can drop in the bath. They have not made a water-proof e-book yet. And when you leave a book dropped in the bath on the side to dry, it has a survivor-feel to it. It has a history. Your e-book can never have a history because it can’t age as you do."